


The Owl and the Suncat

by Zhisanin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied Relationships, Post-Canon, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhisanin/pseuds/Zhisanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Now he hears the others gasp, bite back their astonished cries – they understand and yet they don’t. Now he has crossed that invisible line which Setheris Nelar did not, even by hitting him. A baseborn courier-made-secretary does not talk back to a nobleman, never in front of an audience, and even if he does, he dares not use the familiar. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Based on the kink meme prompt: Csevet beats Setheris in a tavern fistfight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Owl and the Suncat

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dragonsigma and the anon(s) on kink meme for their help -- you are awesome, and all the persisting errors are mine.
> 
> I shamelessly borrowed that sentence about the talents from _Michen_ by Island of Reil, because I found it perfectly atrocious -- I will change it if this is not okay.

 

 

It is one of those rare evenings when Csevet is free to do as he pleases -- and as on every such occasion, he decides to go to The Owl and the Suncat, the cozy tavern frequented by the bigger half of the courier fleet. The food is excellent there, the wine strong and cheap -- there he can always find someone to eat, drink, talk and laugh with.

They still welcome him: at first there was some awkwardness, but when they saw that Csevet had, in sooth, not changed, they quickly grew to accept his sudden elevation in standing. And Csevet has enough interesting tidbits from the life of the higher court to share with them in exchange for their news, so that he never has to trade any actual state or personal secrets. Csevet only swaps his finer clothes to some unassuming grey linen, so as to not make a show of himself, sheds his rings, too, and heads off. He sings a small song under his breath and briskly walks through the darkening streets of Cetho.

 

***

 

It is one of those not-so-rare evenings when Setheris is unable to stay at home. He feels that the very air of their apartments is suffocating him. His good life is suffocating him. He has a decent job, a decent home, a beautiful wife, and after so many years of relegation who would call this bad luck?

Edrehasivar the Hobgoblin was so good to his cousin, wasn't he? Praise him! He not only let Setheris out from prison without considerable fuss, he also gave him a second chance to start everything anew. Only the small details were off. The job is dull. The boss is stupid. The apartments are too close to the river, and the chilly dampness finds its way into everything. Clothes, books, wallpaper. Just like in Edonomee.

And Hesero, the beautiful wife, will now jump at his touch, tremble at his kiss -- and not from arousal, either. That half-blood brat has shown her the scars. Why he did that, Setheris has no idea, but Hesero has changed since. She became distant. Sad.

Setheris got everything back he desired -- but not before his cousin that damned fool trampled through all.

He still cannot bear when Hesero looks at him with such deep sadness; therefore he doesn't drink anymore. At home, that is. He usually frequents classier places, but it is the end of the month, and he has almost no coin left for drink, thus he directs his steps toward The Owl and the Suncat.

Let there be wine.

He enters and sits down at a corner table, facing the wall. He only came here for one purpose: to drink away the edge of the blade his life has become under his ribs. He orders wine by the bottle, pays, and sets himself to get drunk properly.

 

***

 

His fellow couriers jump to their feet and cheer loudly when they see him; Csevet feels like he is being washed away in a loud wave. He is welcomed with warm hugs and friendly kisses, taken to the middle where everyone can hear his voice, finds a glass in his hand, full of wine. His impromptu toast brings about roaring laughter; he empties the glass, and it is refilled instantly.

He sits and helps himself to a generous piece of roast from the serving dish; he eats and listens, then drinks and talks. He is one of them again, as if nothing has changed; they share news, hearsay and rumor, then jokes and rhymes, and some time later a courier who was already half-drunk when Csevet arrived begins singing.

They turn the house upside down, but, they manage to do this without breaking any glassware, so the owner tolerates them. Not so much the man sitting in a corner, hunched like a raven -- a white one, but a raven nonetheless.

He stands finally, and with considerable hardship -- he is pretty much done already -- navigates himself to their table. And Csevet finds himself face to face with Setheris Nelar.

"Why aren’t we surprised?" Setheris spits. "It is thou, again!"

Some of the more inebriated couriers are slow to understand, but then Setheris leans on the table -- his palms hit the wood hard, and no one is fooled into believing he has _not_ fallen. He lifts his head; his face is now level with Csevet's. All the other couriers around the table go very still.

"Osmer Nelar," Csevet tries. "Please, don't make a scene."

"' _Osmer Nelar, please don't make a scene ,''_ " Setheris repeats in a high-pitched, sarcastic voice. Csevet can barely suppress a wince, but before he could say anything to ameliorate the situation, Setheris barks at him again.

"We make no scene!" With effort he lifts his right hand and pokes towards Csevet's eyes with three trembling fingers. "We only mind our own business. You lot," he waves widely to encompass all the couriers, maybe all the Ethuveraz "... it is you filthy lot who make a scene. And thou… thou thinkest that now thou canst get away with everything! Making a parade of thyself and thy revolting tastes!"

"We didn't realize that roasted duck is that revolting," Csevet mutters, prompted by the wine he has taken, but he regrets it immediately. He mustn't make Nelar even more irritated.

"Thou knowest very well what we speak about," Setheris growls, and tries to look into Csevet's eyes. " _‘Will you guide us?’_ " he whines again, and his voice is sharp like metal on frosted glass. "Oh, thou didst, thou didst guide him so very well! And thyself, right into silk and velvet besides! What talents hast thou employed, thy sweet mouth or thine even sweeter arse?

Csevet feels his face flushing hot. _Thou canst not answer him as he would deserve,_ he warns himself. _Canst not sink that low._

"Do stop it, Osmer Nelar. Do not shame yourself any more,” he answers instead with calmness he doesn’t feel. His words are, however, only fuel to the fire. Setheris actually bares his teeth and growls at him.

"Thou jumped-up whore, thou piece of filth, how darest to...

He doesn't finish; the words leave him. Instead he grabs Csevet’s braids and pulls. Hard. Csevet yelps, mostly from surprise, but also from pain.

"Show thee thy place," Setheris snarls, and lifts his other arm -- he aims his fist into Csevet's nose, but Csevet wrenches to the side. He loses both tashin sticks and a handful of hair, or so he feels; his braids come half undone; still, Setheris won’t let go. The blow lands on Csevet’s lips, splitting both open. Blood smears on Setheris's knuckles.

"There, this is better," Nelar grins and stands. "Now for a time thou wilt not whisper into that idiot halfbreed's ears what to do with us."

Something snaps at that moment in Csevet’s head. It is not the pain: though red fire is trickling down his chin, he has endured worse several times. But it is hard enough on him already that many of his friends think the same about his... talents. They do not have to say it out loud: their silence, however horrified, betrays them. Setheris Nelar doesn't get to speak so, _to think so_. Just _not_.

He, too, stands up: though his blood drips onto the table, he manages to speak clearly.

"Honestly, if it had been us, thou wouldst still be sitting in chains, and not in the Esthoramire, either, but in the deepest corner of the Nevennamire, and wouldst stay there until the flesh drops from thy bones!"

Now he hears the others gasp, bite back their astonished cries – they understand and yet they don’t. Now he has crossed that invisible line which Setheris Nelar did not, even by hitting him. A baseborn courier-made-secretary does not talk back to a nobleman, never in front of an audience, and even if he does, he dares not use the familiar.

But Csevet doesn't care anymore. His blood drips onto the front of his shirt now; his anger is hot and heady, dizzying and dark. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that if he has ever misused his position of trust with the emperor, it has happened only just now.

Because that ever-thinking, ever-calculating part of his mind still knows, through the haze of alcohol and rage, that he can tell all that to Nelar and need not fear the repercussions. Because Edrehasivar -- _Maia_ \-- will not punish him. Not for this. Or at least, not too harshly.

"Art thou threatening us?" Setheris tilts his head to the side, incredulous. "Thou art nothing under all that shiny silver but a bloody…”

He doesn’t find a suitable slur; instead he grabs at the _shiny silver_ in Csevet's ear. He almost misses, but two fingernails catch in Csevet's earrings, and tear them completely out from the delicate skin. Csevet cries out, catches Nelar’s wrist and twists it painfully.

"Enough of this," he says in a dangerously low tone. He holds on; twists a little more, and Setheris cries out. He only belatedly realizes that he is surrounded by couriers. _Angry couriers._

"Are you going to beat us?" he asks, his mockery is mixed with real fear now.

"Indeed," Csevet nods; his face is menacing, his blood runs down his earlobe and drips onto his shoulder, a second crimson stain on his slate-grey shirt. "Hold him down," he orders, and to Setheris’s astonishment the couriers obey. Someone from behind grabs his other wrist, and this is enough; he is too drunk to fight back in earnest without falling.

Csevet hits Setheris with open palm; a stinging shameful pain, that leaves no mark to see and show. "So,” he states. “This one for our revolting tastes." Another slap, too quick for Setheris to open his mouth and yell at him. "This for our _talents_." A third. "This for calling us a whore." A fourth. "This for calling thy emperor an idiot halfbreed." A fifth. "This for our lips." A sixth. "This for our ear.” A seventh. “This for good measure. And now let's sober him up."

Setheris has no time to understand: strong hands grab and lift him, carry him out of the tavern, to the backyard... and then the world tilts, spins, and he falls, and the fresh water of the horse trough swallows him coldly.

 

***

 

There are not enough cosmetics in the whole Ethuveraz to cover Csevet's torn, swollen lips in the morning; even though Esaran gave him ice without questions when he got back to the Alcethmeret it was already too late to alleviate the damage. They were showing deep lilac shades by then. His ear is red and puffy, too, but he could conceal that – if he wanted. He decides not to bother; either way he looks like someone who was beaten badly. And he knows that the worst is yet to come: he must present himself to the emperor.

Maia will not be happy.  

 _What hast thou gotten thyself into?_ asks his mirror image. There is no answer. There wasn’t one yesterday as the last of the wine cleared from his mind; only the chagrin remained, and now he isn’t at all sure that the emperor will be, if not thankful, at least forgiving. Even though it was Nelar who came to their table, pulled at his hair, split his lips and ripped out his earrings – Nelar is a nobleman. Csevet is not. This decides everything. This is something even Maia cannot change.

No matter how loyally Csevet has served the new emperor with all his knowledge, aptitude, loyalty – with all his heart – one inebriated evening was enough to bring about a scandal as deep as the Istandaärtha. Because the Court will see. The Court will speculate. The Court will speak. The emperor’s secretary got himself into fisticuffs… and there will be those who will happily supply the possible reasons as well. He is not even sure anymore whether he can count on the solidarity of the courier fleet, whether they will spread tasty gossip – or, what is worse, the tasty truth -- along with the others.

Salezheio knows he has given them enough to talk about.

Csevet shudders, leaves the mirror and steps out to the corridor. Thankfully, the emperor usually gets up earlier than his courtiers; no one is out in the halls yet, and Csevet reaches the dining room without being seen. There he stops for the briefest moment, raises his ears with effort, summons all the composure he can, and enters the room.

“…but then again, we do not think this… “ Cala is speaking, but his voice falters when he sees Csevet. He stares wordlessly, and so does Beshelar; even Isheian stops with the plates in her hands.

It is not as bad as Csevet imagined: it is worse. Maia looks at him and almost drops his delicate porcelain cup. His ears are pinned back in alarm, his eyes wide and dark.

"Csevet! Merciful goddesses, what happened?"

The question is not one asked of the emperor to his secretary, and Csevet almost winces, though he suspects that the nohecharei have guessed as much for some time now. He manages a lopsided smile and steps closer.

“We had… somewhat of a rough evening, Serenity,” he admits, and nods to Isheian’s questioning glance. The fresh chamomile tea is too hot; still, the cup is something he can hold onto for support when he sits down at the table. He would rather remain standing, but he knows Maia wouldn’t accept that.

“A rough evening,” echoes the emperor with disbelief. “Would you care to elaborate?”

There is sincere worry in his silver-gray eyes. Csevet swallows hard and wishes he could say _nothing of significance, I got drunk and there was a stupid brawl,_ but he cannot, because he knows even if the couriers would remain loyal and keep it quiet, Nelar will make sure that the word is spread to everyone who will listen. And Maia has to know the truth.

He sighs, glances after Isheian on her way out, wishing for a moment that he could trade places with her, then takes a better grip on the cup and begins his confession.

“We went to The Owl and the Suncat to spend the evening with our old friends. Our company, including ourselves, got… somewhat intoxicated and loud. There was… someone who objected. Then there was a row… the details of which are unimportant. The situation… quickly escalated until he first hit us in the mouth, and then tore out two of our earrings. At that point we could not contain our anger any longer, probably due to the wine we consumed, and we slapped him. In fact, we slapped him several times,” he corrects himself painfully, because he knows he must tell everything. And he also knows that he will do so, down to the smallest _unimportant_ detail, for Maia has his own, special, private ways of making him talk – if he doesn’t ask now, he will later. “Finally,” he admits, “we threw him into the horse trough to sober him up.”

Silence follows his words. Csevet doesn’t dare to look up from the steam swirling from his cup, and this is what gives him away.

“Is there more?” Maia’s voice is high, shocked, and Csevet couldn’t say whether it is still due to his injuries or to the realization of the impeding scandal.  There is no way he can evade the question, avoid the real confession. He instinctively bites his bottom lip, and winces from the sudden pain.

“It was Osmer Nelar,” he admits quietly. He wishes he could add that _it was not on thy account,_ but he cannot, because it _was._ Not the way Maia would perceive it, but it still was.

“Setheris.” The name is a long hiss, unexpected -- and, if Csevet did not know Maia as well as he does, he would say _enraged._ He looks up into the emperor’s eyes, and suddenly his head swims with what he sees there.

“Serenity…” he tries, but Maia simply waves his attempt aside, and continues.

“No. We thought there would be an end to this… issue. Now we see that nothing, in sooth, has changed. We would not have Setheris Nelar acting as he pleases… behaving himself scandalously, causing disturbance and injuring our secretary out of… out of self-pity,” he finishes, but Csevet has the feeling he wanted to say something entirely different. “Would you please send a page and summon our cousin immediately?”

“Yes, Serenity”, Csevet answers, though there is nothing he wants less, but he cannot defy the emperor. A page is sent, and then Maia asks about the day’s tasks, and pretends he is actually eating the breakfast brought in by the returning Isheian. Csevet is not fooled, though, and neither, he thinks, are Cala or Beshelar.

Nelar arrives some twenty minutes later, wearing plain, everyday clothes, simple lacquered black tashin sticks and a sick greenish color to his face. He does not quite glare at Csevet, but they cannot avoid looking at each other, and Setheris, if possible, gets even greener seeing Csevet’s lips.

“Good morning, cousin,” Maia greets him. “We hear that you had a… rough evening yesterday. We already have heard what Mer Aisava had to say about it; now we want to hear your understanding of the events.”

No _please_ this time, and the omission stings. Setheris lifts his head, and though he doesn’t even look in his direction, Csevet knows what he is thinking. _What lies has that damned whore told about us?_ But when Setheris speaks, his voice is low and deceptively calm.

“Serenity, we were behaving… scandalously. We cannot deny that. We became intoxicated… we _both_ did, and while this is no excuse at all, it may serve as extenuating circumstance. And though Mer Aisava has committed libel against us, we do not wish to file a lawsuit. We think it is better not to stir those waters. If that is also acceptable to Mer Aisava, of course,” he turns to Csevet.

 _So it is_ Mer Aisava _now,_ thinks Csevet, and then suddenly understands. _He is afraid! He probably thinks, and might even be right, that the couriers would bear no witness – or if they did, it would be against him._

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, and calls Maia’s scars to mind.

“Yes, it is acceptable, as far as the _mutual_ libel goes,” he answers slowly. “As for the physical assault… we feel we need more time to consider whether we wish to file a lawsuit. Osmer Nelar, you are a lawyer, if we are not mistaken. Could you please tell us what is the exact statute of limitation for assault?”

Setheris glares daggers at him, but he cannot refuse to answer.

“Two years from the deed, Mer Aisava,” he all but growls, and Beshelar takes a small step forward.  Setheris is unable to fully keep himself from starting.

“Very well. That should be enough for us to decide,” nods Csevet. “Thank you for your kind cooperation, Osmer Nelar.”

And he smiles at Setheris – painfully, but as brightly as the suncat on the tavern sign.

 

 


End file.
